There are people in this world who take one look at others and think they know them. Those who look at me are wrong with every judgement they make. I’m big, I’ve got scars, and I scowl a heck of a lot, but that’s because of the hell I’ve lived through. The thing is, I’ve come out on the other side and I’m still here—that in my book makes me a survivor—which is more than can be said for a lot of men in my position. My name is Micah Clark, a thirty-five-year-old man who’s lived ten lifetimes. I appreciate solitude, am motivated to succeed, and want busybodies to stay the hell away from me. I’ve done my duty in life and have helped countless individuals, and now I just want to live out the rest of my days in solitude. I’m damn sick of people asking if something is wrong. Moving to this small town of Ravish Oregon wasn’t my smartest decision in a long line of life-altering decisions. Everyone thinks they know all about their neighbors. What they don’t know, they snoop until they think they figure it out, but the wounds I carry are too deep for anyone to dig into. I know what needs to be done next, and none of it has anything to do with a woman. Do I like women? Sure, what red-blooded male doesn’t like a soft, warm body to warm them up for a few hours? However, I want to bring us both pleasure . . . and then forget her name before I walk out the door to never look back. People have always said to me though, if you want to make God laugh, just tell Him your plans. This might be truer than I care to admit, because just when I think I’m getting myself together enough to normally function in society, in walks Alexandra Crix and her angry son, Dillan . . . and they’re in trouble. What’s a man to do? I can’t know something is wrong and sit back knowing I can help, can I?